


Peeping Tom

by GoodThingsAndSmallPackages



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, sorry - Freeform, voyurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 01:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3672336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodThingsAndSmallPackages/pseuds/GoodThingsAndSmallPackages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have a slight obsession with my neighbor across the street from me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peeping Tom

You know those really shitty apartment buildings, where the alleys between them are just wide enough to stand in, and even then you get covered in all matters of dark wet gunk? Well yeah that’s where I life. Not the alley of course, one of the flats. The tiny box bathroom has the toilet practically sitting inside the shower cubicle, and the kitchen and living room merge into one messy and smelly room. It may not be for everyone, but this is my home. There aren’t any leaks from the ceiling and the amount of mould growing on the walls is down to a minimum. When you want to wash your clothes, the entire flat turns into a Chinese laundry slash obstacle course. Wet socks slapping you in the face and jeans that take an eternity to dry.

 

 

Thinking about it now, I probably should have stayed at home, even the bad parts of town have better housing than this. But I had to go and follow my dream and want to move on and spread my wings. Look where that’s got me. At least I managed to find myself a job, as crappy as it is. No one gives a damn about the history of agriculture, not even the school kids who drag their feet through the halls of the museum, still chewing three hours old gum. One of the good things about living here is the little old lady who lives downstairs who brings me some left over lasagne or stew every once in a while.

 

 

I once pulled her cat out of her washing machine when it managed to get stuck in there. Don’t ask me how, but that was its preferred place of sleeping, which isn’t great for a long haired moggy. Ever since then she has adored me. Makes me feel a bit like a hero.

 

 

Living so close to the building opposite me has given me a strange past time, I’ve started peeping. Living as high up as I do does have some perks, I can look down on everyone below me, stare into their lives.

 

There’s something very liberating about peeping, hiding in the darkness of my curtains at three in the morning, watching couple having an argument, flower vases thrown and hair pulled. I watch a middle aged man, slowly destroy his life. A young mother and her daughter, who wants to one day go to space – their flat is covered in posters of the moon, Saturn and Pluto. The little girl has endless amounts of aliens and space ships. One couple in particular really shouldn’t be together, every night they end up in another argument. Some are more physical than others, but they all end the same. Hard rough sex against the cold window.

 

 

Only rarely do I sleep. It’s hard to. The doctors don’t help and there’s something iffy about buying sleeping pills from a pharmacy. So most nights, after a truly exciting day showing kids one of the first ways to plough a field, I sit drinking coffee, bundled in my duvet and smoking inside my window. I watch the pigeons with missing feet, hop along telephone wires to safety. A young woman crying in the bathtub, her breasts covered in bubbles and foam. An elderly couple, holding hands and drinking tea. It’s all very innocent and sweet. I can switch between people like changing the channel. And in all honesty, not many people are interesting enough to keep my attention. Bar one.

 

 

A few windows below mine hangs a washing line between the two buildings. On my side, a fat woman attempts to hang her parachute underwear along the wire, and the other, a young man with dark blonde curly hair helps her without laughing too much. He’s starting to peak my interest. My new favourite TV show.

 

 

Apparently he works the late shift, lights in the kitchen flickering on at one in the morning when he gets home, and the man staggering into the fridge for a well-deserved beer. I don’t know what he does for work, but I like his uniform. He slowly peels the clothing off, dumping it in what must be the living room. He pads around the kitchen bare foot, with his ass waving at me. By now my face is pressed against my window, head is peeking through the cover of curtains and blankets, nose bent inwards by the pressure. I’ve been doing this for the last week or so, and every night he has the same routine. Stripping delightfully naked, stretching in the cold light of the kitchen and having a beer. He must be able to see me, with my breath fogging up the glass, curtains shaking erratically with every move my hand makes.

 

 

And then he stops. My fix is gone; my favourite TV has been cancelled mid-season. I still sit by my window, fingers being burnt slowly by my cigarette. All I want is for him to come back, stroll past his window, the angle so I can just see the beginning of pubes trailing down. But there is nothing. No mop of blonde hair helping the fat lady with her washing. After three days of me helplessly searching for my stranger, I realise how stupid I’m being. I start to try and sleep again. Not like I haven’t been TRYING, but now I don’t have any distractions. The couple who always argue are boring now, no amount of swearing and punches will entertain me. The little girl is no longer obsessed with space; she likes ponies and blonde haired dolls now.

 

 

Rather than sitting by the windows, I lay on the sofa, still wide awake, but I like to pretend that I’m trying to sleep. My eyes are burning, and my throat is sore, but sleep doesn’t come.

 

 

I pull myself up and drag myself to the kitchen, sitting on the counter with the small window open, dropping cigarette ash into the sink. All that can be seen is the small amber, floating in the darkness. That’s when I notice it. The shadow moving below me, curls outlined by a small light. There he is. My craving that I was missing. Relief washes over me that he still lives there; he hasn’t left and moved onto bigger and better things, not just yet.

 

 

He his hunched over his kitchen sink, bare shoulders covered in a sheen of sweat, head hanging low. Soon I realise just what it is he is doing, he’s masturbating. Wanking. Beating the monkey, whatever. But it’s fucking hot. One hand is clutched on the edge of the sink, the other is pumping furiously just below the counter, where the line of small curls stop. I can’t see what he’s doing. Why can’t I see what he’s doing? I need this so badly, I didn’t even realise how much I missed watching him.

 

 

I stub out my cigarette in the sink, and shift closer to the window, straddling the counter with one leg hanging off, its cutting off circulation in my foot, but I can almost see it, If he just lens back a few inches, I can see exactly what’s going on down there. And Jesus do I want to see. My hand slithers into my boxers so naturally, clutching my already leaking boner. Slowly stroking to match the speed that my addiction is setting, I can’t help but let a small smile grace my lips.

 

 

When he looks up, directly at me, locking eyes I nearly have a heart attack. I can see from the shaking that he has sped up his efforts, and is grinning slyly at me, opening his mouth and allowing his breath to fog up the glass. Honestly, that nearly breaks me, then and there I feel like crying and ripping my cock off. Just throwing at him, him and his perfect arms and stupid smile. In reality, all I do is gasp. I can’t even move, stop the movements that my hand is doing, just stare back open-mouthed looking like a right moron.

 

 

His eyes screw shut, body tenses and throws his head back. My body stills automatically, waiting for what happens next. I’m just uselessly clutching my knob in a iron grip, watching his orgasm roll over him. I can only imagine what the noises he makes are like. If I could hear them, I would probably be happy for them to be the last thing I do hear. His head rolls forward again, looking back up at me. He slowly brings the hand that was furiously pumping below the counter to his mouth; I can see the wetness of them even from this distance. Slowly, blondie over there opens his mouth, tongue flicking out to his hand, wet sticky fingers are pulled in between his lips, and cheeks begin hollowing as all evidence of what he did has disappeared down his throat. All the while he watches me, staring me down. In an instant I’m screaming, clutching at the sink and cabinets above me. Never before have I managed to cum without moving my hand in the last few moments, but there’s always a first for everything.

 

 

When my eyes begin to focus again, I can see him chuckle, it looks as if he winks at me, and then he’s gone, bare ass wiggling away from me.


End file.
